


Your Voice, It Makes Me Whole; Your Words, They Make Me Feel

by Morwen_Maranwe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come play, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Facials, Fingering, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, John Watson's voice, John is a patient lover, Kink Meme, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Power Dynamic, Praise Kink, Sexual Humiliation, Sexual Submission, Slight Military Kink, Smut, Spanking, Understanding John, Voice Kink, d/s dynamics, lots of orgasms, sexually frustrated Sherlock, surprise orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John Watson uses his voice and words to help Sherlock orgasm, and one time he doesn’t need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt on the Sherlock BBC kink meme  
>  _“John's Voice of Sex:_  
>  _I've read many fics that mention Sherlock's (admittedly hot!) 'voice of sex' but I'd really love to read one where it's John's sexy talk and his naturally empathic skill as a lover that has Sherlock weak at the knees._
> 
>  
> 
> _I'd like for John to know just what tone of voice to use and what to say, knowing what Sherlock needs for each encounter, whether it be a commanding tone, or soft, gentle and coaxing, or most especially hot and descriptive and filthy. So basically, John knows just what Sherlock needs for fantastic sex, every time and every mood, and he knows just what to say and how to say it. And Sherlock just can't get enough of his sexy John!”_
> 
>  
> 
> I absolutely love dirty talk and just could _not_ pass this prompt up!  Hope I stayed true to the prompt, I feel like I kind of got lost in my own smut sometimes O.o  Great big thanks to That Kid With the Long Coat for beta'ing!  Tags will be filled as chapters go up, but are not necessarily in chronological order.
> 
>  
> 
> I. John knows this isn’t something Sherlock is used to, but maybe a gentle tone and coaxing words are all the other man needs.

“So, have you ever been able to?” John asks quietly, fidgeting uncomfortably on the bed.  Sherlock doesn’t blame him for being uncomfortable—they are both naked after all, and mid-coitus.  He assumes this would be a very embarrassing position for anyone to be in.

“Only a few times, and never with anyone else,” Sherlock answers him, not looking him in the eye.  It’s not that he is ashamed, it’s just that he doesn’t want to chance seeing disappointment on John’s face, the way so many other sexual partners have looked when they have wanted to return the favor to Sherlock and bring him to completion.

It’s one of the reasons that he hasn’t had sex in so long, or even attempted a relationship.  But then John had come along and John was just so… _John_.

Perfect.  Bloody perfect in every way.

And when John wanted to take their relationship to the next, inevitable level, Sherlock found that he hadn’t wanted to say no, even though he knew this was going to happen.

So he tried to put it off for a while.  The two had been having sexual relations of some sort or the other for a few weeks now, but Sherlock had tried hard to make it all about John, brushing off John’s attempts to return the favor with excuses like ‘I have an experiment that needs finishing’ or ‘It’s okay, John, I know you’re tired.  Just sleep and you can make it up to me later’.

But he knew that it would come to this eventually.  John Watson is by no means a selfish lover, and Sherlock knows that each time they are intimate (and Sherlock doesn’t orgasm at the end of it) John only feels guiltier and guiltier.

“Is it because you…can’t?” John stumbles over his words.  He may be a doctor, and Sherlock knows that a clinical setting has a lot to do with being able to ask such personal questions, but this most certainly is not that.  “Physically, I mean?  I know you get hard, that happens every time, so I just don’t understand….” He trails off, and Sherlock can already hear the disappointment in his voice, that edge of sadness that will soon grow into confusion and blame.

“It’s difficult to describe,” Sherlock tells him honestly, because he really does want John to know, he doesn’t want to keep this from the man the way he had tried to keep it from other partners.  “It’s like a sensory overload.  I can become aroused because my body enjoys the feeling of everything that we do together, but my mind refuses to tip me over the edge.”  He frowns, trying to think of how to describe it, and still does not look at John.  “Sometimes I tend to over-think what I’m feeling, or my brain just goes off on a completely separate tangent.  It’s annoying, but it’s something that I’ve learned to live with.  That’s why I had decided to stay abstinent for so long.  Sexual stimulation offered me no release, so I didn’t even bother trying.”

Next to him, he feels John shift on the bed.  “But…you _can_ do it?” John asks him, and his voice sounds eager.  “You’re able to?”

Sherlock winces at the enthusiasm in John’s voice, because he knows it will only lead to a bigger disappointment, but he doesn’t lie to him.  He can’t.  “I can achieve orgasm every so often by myself,” he confesses, “so I know that my body is capable of doing it, but it requires a tremendous amount of time and effort.”  He hopes that his words are enough to break John’s delusions.

There is a slight pause and the silence seems thick between them.  Sherlock figures that this is the part where John gives up, the way many of his past partners have, not even bothering to try because they don’t want to feel the disappointment of the inevitable failure, but John surprises him.

“I want to do it for you,” he hears John say into the stillness, and John’s tone is steady, sure, capable, and Sherlock desperately wants to give in to it, but knows better than to believe it.

“Why?” he asks instead, at a loss.  He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to put in so much effort for something that their own body won’t even be the one to enjoy.

“Because I want to bring you to orgasm,” John answers simply, as if it should be obvious.

“John, it’s really not necessary, I promise,” Sherlock presses, somewhat panicked.  “I enjoy what we do—I like becoming aroused because of you, and that can be enough for me.”  He doesn’t want John to become just another ex, just another try, just another attempt.  And he knows how this will go if John cannot succeed; he’s been in this position too many times before.

But John just frowns at him, giving him a confused, slightly hurt look that Sherlock watches out of the corner of his eye.  “Why don’t you want me to do it?”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed when it doesn’t happen.”

“Don’t you have any faith in me?” John asks, and there is a bit of incredulity behind his tone, and more than a hint of humor.  “They didn’t call me ‘Three Continents Watson’ because I left partners unfulfilled across the globe, you know.”

“It’s just—” Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off quickly.

“Hey, shhh,” John says, and he leans into Sherlock’s body, wrapping a warm, comforting arm over the thin man’s pale shoulders and bringing him close.  “It’s okay.  I want to do this for you.  And if it doesn’t work this time, that’s fine, it’ll be all right.  We’ll just try again later.  We can try as many times as you like, as many times as it takes to make you feel good.”

Sherlock doesn’t want to say yes.  He knows that he shouldn’t.  He knows what will end up happening, what always ends up happening, but he can’t help it.  He wants this with John in a way that he has never wanted it with his other partners.  Before, he had wanted it for himself, for his own pleasure.  But this…there is a sense of need running through him now, the sense that he wants to be able to give John this part of himself, this part that he has never given anybody else.

The thought sends a shiver of arousal through him.

“Yes, all right,” he hears himself whispering.

“Perfect,” John says, turning his head slightly to kiss the brunet’s forehead and Sherlock can feel him smiling happily against his skin.

John starts slow, lying Sherlock gently back against the sheets, settling softly down on top of him.  He lies mostly to Sherlock’s side to keep the weight off of him and resumes kissing the man; indulgent, tender kisses that leave sparks behind on Sherlock’s tongue and a warm glowing feeling deep in his belly.  He doesn’t touch Sherlock’s cock for a long time, instead using his hand to caress every other part of the consulting detective’s body, teasing him, letting him enjoy the slow burn of it.

And Sherlock does enjoy it.  Very much so.

He writhes beneath John’s body and arches up into his hand as John slowly—finally—trails it towards his straining cock.  Sherlock enjoys this; he wasn’t lying to John about that.  He can feel arousal and stimulation normally, and he basks in the feelings running through his body, letting them flow over him, letting John take care of him.

Just when he thinks John will finally take him in hand, the doctor trails his fingers away teasingly.  Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, frustrated, but John only pulls away slightly and chuckles.

“We’re not done yet, love.  I know that’s not all that you need.”  He shifts against Sherlock, changing positions.  He moves to hover completely on top of Sherlock, using one arm—the good one—to rest all of his weight on as his other continues to explore Sherlock’s body.  John keeps kissing him but abandons Sherlock’s mouth for the rest of his body, licking and nibbling and biting every piece of flesh that he can reach.  Sherlock is soon shaking underneath him, caught in between John’s mouth and John’s hand and all of John’s attention and it’s almost too much, but not nearly enough.

They spend what feels to Sherlock like hours this way, John continuing to lavish love onto Sherlock’s body, touching everything, tasting everything, except for that one area where Sherlock wants John’s attentions the most.

But John denies him that.  Sherlock tries to direct him there, over and over again, but every time Sherlock’s hips rise towards John’s hand—so close, he’s so close—John only moves to grip his hips softly, pushing his body back down onto the mattress.  And when Sherlock opens his mouth to speak—not to beg, not to plead, certainly not—John instantly shushes him with a deep kiss.

It is driving Sherlock crazy and he _wants_.  Oh, how he wants.  He can feel a pressure in his body tightening, coiling slowly, a warmth in his belly that he hardly ever feels.  He is sweating against the sheets, his hair sticking to his forehead and rubbing across the pillows and he can’t ever remember feeling this needy, this urgent.  It’s wonderful.

Against him, Sherlock knows that John can feel the change in his body, the desperation.  At last he gives Sherlock the reprieve his body wants, trailing deft, agile fingers along Sherlock’s thighs and higher, higher, until…

When John finally takes hold of Sherlock’s aching cock, the brunet man gasps, surprised at the intensity of the sensation there.  John has teased him so mercilessly that his body is as taut as the strings on his violin, ready to snap if pushed any farther.  But John doesn’t relent.  He smears his palm over the head of Sherlock’s cock and through the copious amounts of precome that Sherlock has leaked over the time John has spent worshipping him.  There is more than enough lubrication for what John intends to do.

He starts slowly, teasingly, the way that he has played with the rest of Sherlock’s body.  Soft touches that aren’t enough, aren’t nearly enough, hardly any pressure at all and Sherlock whines loudly, writhing underneath the blond man.

“John, please,” he says, because he needs.  He doesn’t know exactly what it is that he needs, but he knows that John can give it to him, whatever it is.

“Yes, all right,” John concedes, and his grip tightens around Sherlock’s prick, squeezing just right and pumping firmly, twisting at the head and tightening even more on the way back down, over and over and over again, and the slick slide of it and the heat and the constriction are all so good.  So very, very good.

He pants against John’s neck, burying himself in the smell of flesh and sweat and he surprises himself when he gets so close to the edge that he thinks he just might…

“John, I…” he begins, but doesn’t know how to continue, because while he certainly is on the edge, he is also most certainly staying right there, teetering, but not falling over.  He whines in frustration.

“Shhh, it’s all right, love,” John soothes, his voice soft.  “You’re almost there, aren’t you?  I can feel it.  You’re doing so well.”

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him, gritting his teeth and pressing his face harder against John’s skin, trying to push himself over but it just isn’t working.

“It’s okay for you to want this, Sherlock; it’s okay for your body to need it.  Come on, you can do it.  I know you can.”

And John’s tone is so soft, so gentle, so _loving_ that Sherlock sobs.  He wants to do this for John, to be able to give John this, because he knows that the other man wants it so desperately—not for himself, but for Sherlock.  John wants Sherlock to have this, to experience it, and that’s all John needs for himself, Sherlock can hear it all in his the soft cadence of John’s voice.

Sherlock feels himself straining uselessly against John’s hand, still unable to go any farther.  The stimulations are overwhelming his body—too good, too much, too fast—and he lets out a pained whimper.  He can still feel his body right there on the sharp edge, wavering between absolute pleasure and overwhelming pain from over-stimulation and John can feel it, too.  He backs off just a tad, just enough for Sherlock to be able to breathe again.

With the softer, lighter touch, John brings his mouth down to kiss Sherlock softly, his lips moving against Sherlock’s mouth in the same manner as his hand working over Sherlock’s cock, the pull, the push, the slickness.  And when he speaks he doesn’t even pull away from Sherlock’s plush cupid’s bow, whispering against Sherlock’s open mouth as he continues to kiss him between words.

“It’s okay, darling, don’t be worried.  It’s all perfectly natural; just let your body do the work.  Let your body take over, that’s it, it’s okay.  I’ve got you—”

Sherlock moans as he feels an uncomfortable, growing tightness coiling in his belly.  His legs go rigid and his hands twist in the sheets and his breaths come out in short puffs of air as the feeling in his groin builds and builds and builds until—

He orgasms with a scream.

“That’s it, lovely,” he can hear John soothing softly through the haze of his climax, the sound dampened and slightly fuzzy to Sherlock’s ears as the rush of blood and the heavy beat of his heart drown out all other noise.  “That’s perfect.  That’s beautiful.”

When Sherlock can think again, he notices that John’s hand hasn’t left his cock, which is still rock hard even after achieving orgasm, but he doesn’t move it, doesn’t want to over-stimulate and ruin the first true orgasm Sherlock has ever had in his life.  He simply holds on to it, letting the warmth of his hand and the pressure rock Sherlock’s body into small aftershocks, pleasurable and perfect.

“That…that was…” Sherlock tries, but he discovers that he can’t really find adequate words.

“Hot as hell,” John finishes for him with a grin.

“Amazing,” Sherlock adds, and he smiles up at John, too.  John leans down to kiss him firmly on the mouth and Sherlock can’t help it—he is asleep before John pulls away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> II. John goes the soft and loving approach with Sherlock and gets some interesting results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but hopefully it's sweet and you guys like it :)

“It’s okay to be hurt and angry, Sherlock,” John tells him as they enter the flat, both tired after a long day spent at Scotland Yard.  “I would be, if I were you.  The way they continue to treat you is ridiculous.”

“I’m not _hurt_ , John,” Sherlock says angrily, throwing off his long overcoat and flinging it onto the sofa in a huff that belies his words.  “As if I care what those imbeciles think, anyways.”

“You don’t have to care what they think for their words to hurt your feelings,” John states, and his tone is harsh and upset, angry that people can be so mean to Sherlock without a second thought.  “I’m sorry that they act the way that they do towards you.”

“Please, John,” Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes.  “I don’t need your _pity_.”

“It’s not pity, Sherlock,” John argues, his voice a touch too loud in the quiet of the sitting room.  He peels off his own jacket slowly, to give him something to do besides glare at Sherlock, because it is not the brunet man that he is really mad at.  “I hate that they treat you like that because I can see what it does to you.  It hurts you.  I know that.  Deep down, even if you aren’t aware of it.  But I don’t ever want you to think for a second that what they say is true.  You’re not a psychopath, and you’re not a freak.  You are the most amazing individual that I know, and I want you to always remember that.”

John moves across the room to take Sherlock in his arms and the taller man lets him, melting against John as his body releases all of the tension that he didn’t know he had been carrying.  John’s hands move to cup Sherlock’s face on either side, running his thumbs along the sharp line of Sherlock’s cheekbones and using the leverage to pull the man slightly down for a soft kiss on the lips. 

When he releases Sherlock’s mouth he takes  a second to look at the man, notes the sadness around the corners of his eyes and the tightness around the edges of his mouth.  “You’re everything that I want, you know that?” he tells Sherlock, whispers it, because it doesn’t ever need to be said any louder.  “Everything that I need.  And I wouldn’t ever want you to change.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, because John knows that a part of him still has trouble believing it.  But John will get him to understand.  Even if it takes a lifetime.

“You’re perfect, Sherlock.  Just the way you are.”

And then he’s kissing Sherlock again, but with none of the leisure and more of the heat.  Against his lips, he feels Sherlock surging into the kiss, opening his mouth and letting John in, letting John deep.  John licks into Sherlock’s mouth and it tastes like the rain from earlier that day that they had been standing in.

He maneuvers them onto the couch, positive that he can’t possibly make it even as far as the bedroom, fighting Sherlock’s clothing the whole way.  Sherlock is completely pliant against him, and the way his body goes soft against John’s sends a shiver through the doctor.

John doesn’t speak again until he has the detective lying prostate on the couch beneath him, shirt halfway off and hanging from one shoulder, and trousers hastily undone and pushed down to his thighs along with his pants.  But then he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re so much better than they give you credit for, you know that?” he asks against Sherlock’s open mouth, and the brunet’s tongue comes out to lick along John’s lips, making him moan.  He tears his own trousers open, fumbling with the flies.  John finally manages to pull his prick out, lines his hips up with Sherlock’s and thrusts, and it feels so fucking good, he can stay like this forever.  “They’re wrong about you—you’re not uncaring.  I can feel how much you care every time you look at me.”

Another hard thrust and they both gasp into each other’s mouths.

“And you’re kind, I know you’re kind.  I can see it so often in the little things you do for me.”  John ruts shamelessly against Sherlock’s body and the man moans beneath him but it’s not enough, not quite enough, so he reaches a hand between them and grasps them both tightly and it’s perfect, perfect.

“And you care so much, about everything.  The cases, the people, the puzzles.  You wouldn’t become so invested if you didn’t truly care, deep down.”

John tightens his grip around both of them and jerks them off, together, using their combined precome to ease the way.  Beneath him Sherlock arches into his touch, and John kisses his neck, sucking marks into it shamelessly.

“You’re marvelous,” he tells Sherlock, gasping against the pale skin as his hand continues to work them, together.  “Amazing.  Gorgeous.  Wonderful.  I love you, Sherlock.  I love you so—”

John’s words are cut off as Sherlock gasps loudly against his mouth and bucks violently up into his body, spilling hot and warm and unexpectedly between them.

For a moment John stares at him in astonishment, surprise etched on both of their faces at the suddenness of Sherlock’s orgasm.  But then John practically melts against him and ruts against his body, dick smearing across Sherlock’s semen coated stomach and creating the most wonderful slide of flesh between them.

“Oh _fuck_ yes.  So beautiful,” John murmurs as he continues to push himself against Sherlock, and the brunet man blushes silently beneath him, somewhat embarrassed by his own body’s betrayal.  John can feel his thrusts become erratic against the other man, and Sherlock tilts his head up to catch John’s mouth with his own, knowing that the blond man is close.

Sherlock moans into John’s mouth once, deeply, and that’s all it takes—John comes undone with a gasp and a warm splash against Sherlock’s stomach.

“You’re absolutely perfect, you know that?” John asks as he falls onto the narrow couch cushions next to Sherlock, panting heavily and pulling the brunet man to him.

Sherlock goes willingly, placing his head on John’s shoulder, and John wraps an arm around his thin body. 

“I didn’t before,” he hears Sherlock whisper into his chest as he begins to drift off to sleep.  “But I think I’m starting to understand.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> III. John is surprised to learn that a commanding tone can take Sherlock a long way.

He had no idea he would react this way.  Baskerville had hinted at it, but Sherlock has never really let his mind dwell on the idea of _Captain_ John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.  He doesn’t know why, not if it makes him feel like _this_ …

They are back home now, thankfully, and Sherlock can’t stop himself from pining John up against the closed door of their flat, kissing him desperately and rubbing up against him shamelessly.  John only smiles darkly against his mouth, letting Sherlock snog him breathless. 

“Did you like that, then?” he asks the brunet when Sherlock’s lips finally trail away from his own and make their way lower.  “Me pulling rank?  Ordering those soldiers around that way?” John’s tone has taken on a hard edge, _commanding_ , and a shiver runs through Sherlock’s body unexpectedly.

“Yes, sir, I did,” he answers without thinking.

And _oh_ what a surprise that is.  John thinks so too, Sherlock can see it in the astonishment that flits across his face for a brief moment before the Captain seals it away, pulling his calm, collected demeanor over himself once again.

“Would you like me to do that to you?” John asks, and his voice is casual, as if he is asking about the weather.  “Is that what you need to get off, soldier?”

“Yes, oh _fuck,_ yes,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself.  He can feel his cock getting hard in his trousers already and John hasn’t even done anything to him.  He marvels at it for a moment before John pushes all other thoughts out of his mind, leaving it blissfully blank.

“Come stand over here in front of me, then, and strip.”

It’s a very straightforward command, John’s tone sharp and brooking no argument.  Sherlock knows that the Captain is not going to dance around telling Sherlock exactly what the he wants tonight, no, not with that tone.

Sherlock goes to John and strips before him, efficiently, hastily.  He sees John’s eyes travel down his lean body and stare openly at his semi-aroused cock.  The edge of John’s lips quirk up into a devilish smile and Sherlock knows that he is lost.

“I see you’re enjoying this,” John tells him, tone carefully neutral.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock responds automatically, and he is surprised at himself.  He has never once thought of playing this game with John, and now he is wondering why.

“Let’s see if you’re still enjoying this when I’m done with you,” John says darkly, and it sounds like a threat.  He stands before Sherlock at military rest—shoulders squared, feet spread the appropriate amount apart, hands behind his back—and tells him, “Open up my trousers and take out my cock.”

Sherlock’s hands fumble to obey John quickly, undoing the flies and peeling the clothing back.  He doesn’t tug them down John’s thighs, he leaves them sitting loosely around his hips.  He pulls out the other man’s prick, shoving his pants aside, and starts to rub the soft flesh in his hand, impatient to feel it harden against him.

But then he feels John’s hand push harshly down on his shoulder, and the soldier’s voice say, “Get down on your knees and suck me,” and Sherlock can’t help it, he falls heavily to his knees and opens his mouth obligingly for John’s cock before he even knows what he’s doing.

At his acquiescence he hears John sigh happily above him and feels him bring a hand up to pet the back of Sherlock’s head, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  “That’s a good lad,” he croons, and Sherlock takes his cock in a deep as he can in one go.

He works his mouth furiously over John’s prick, sloppily, because he knows that’s what John likes, and he is rewarded by the feel of John’s cock filling out swiftly against his tongue.  Above him John moans, and when Sherlock pushes his mouth so far down the man’s stiff length that he gags himself, John’s hands are quickly in his hair, yanking Sherlock’s mouth off of him.

John tightens his grip in Sherlock’s hair and pulls the brunet farther away from his body until Sherlock is off balance on his knees, and John steers him to the side.  Sherlock knows what he wants, moves onto all fours facing away from him before John even gives the order, the blond’s voice rough and deep with want.

“Get on the ground, on all fours.”

Sherlock goes quietly, all-too willingly.  For a long moment he doesn’t feel John move behind him, doesn’t hear the rustle of clothing.  He knows John is staring at him and shivers wrack his body, embarrassed by being on display like he is.

But John isn’t done looking, apparently. 

Sherlock hears the man finally move behind him, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, and a gentle hand comes up to caress the soft skin of his arse.

“Open yourself up for me, Sherlock, I want to see you,” John’s voice says from behind him, and his tone is still hard and steely.  He’s not asking Sherlock to do it, or pleading for Sherlock to do what he says.  He’s telling Sherlock to do it, plain and simple, no room for arguments. 

Sherlock doesn’t argue.  He leans forward, resting his shoulders and his head against the hardwood floor and reaches both hands behind him to pull his arse cheeks apart obscenely, moaning as the cold air hits his exposed hole.

He can hear John’s breath catch.  “Wider,” he urges Sherlock, voice slightly wrecked.  And then there is a soft, “Attaboy,” when Sherlock complies.

John is content to watch for a moment, taking all of Sherlock in, put so obscenely on display for him.  But Sherlock finds himself growing impatient quickly and so he clenches his hole several times as John watches him, reminding the doctor that he is disappointingly empty at the moment.

John understands.

Sherlock feels the pad of one of the blond’s fingers rubbing over his hole dry, the sensation stimulating, but not enough, not without that slick slide that Sherlock wants so much.

But John knows this, too.

“Lick my fingers,” he commands Sherlock, shifting his body so that he can lean over Sherlock’s back and reach the detective’s mouth with one hand while the other continues to play with his dry hole, not pushing in, simply getting it used to the feel of his fingers.  Sherlock strains his neck to reach the digits John is presenting him, and he sucks them into his mouth hungrily, positively soaking them because he knows where they will end up soon. 

“Come on, more,” John urges from behind him.  “Get them nice and wet, yes, like that, fuck.” 

He pulls them out of Sherlock’s mouth when the brunet is least expecting it, smearing a trail of spit across the man’s face.  Sherlock whines at the loss of contact, but he is quickly placated when he feels John’s wet fingers sliding over his hole.  John pushes one finger in and Sherlock gasps at the sensation, always so strange, but he relaxes into it and John plunges deeper, getting him used to the feeling.

“You’re going to take two, now,” John suddenly tells him a moment later, and Sherlock knows that it is a warning, because they aren’t doing this with proper lubricant, and John wants him to be prepared for the feeling, no matter what game they are playing.  So when the second finger breaches him, Sherlock bears down to lessen the uncomfortableness of it, and John is so slow and careful that it drives the brunet man crazy as he kneels on the floor.

Before the third finger, Sherlock can feel a large, body-warm puddle of wetness dripping down suddenly between his arse cheeks, and he knows that John has added his own spit to the mix to ease the way.  He is grateful for John’s cautiousness as he feels the burn of the stretch strongly.  It is a lot to take, but Sherlock enjoys the feeling, and he doesn’t tell John to stop, so John doesn’t.

They take their time melding together, John being sure to stroke Sherlock’s prostate often to ease the burn of the stretch and before long Sherlock is a panting, writhing mess on the floor beneath John, hair soaked with sweat and body shivering from the intensity of the sensations John is invoking. 

“You’re ready for me now, aren’t you?” John asks, and his voice, dear _God_ his voice.  Sherlock has never heard it so deep before, so needy, and Sherlock feels his body respond to John’s tone, his hole clenching greedily around John’s fingers as the man shoves deep into him one last time.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock groans out, near mindless with want.  He can feel his cock hanging heavy between his legs, but John has ignored it completely the entire time he has prepped Sherlock, and the brunet man just wants relief.

“Turn over, then,” John says as he pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s arse.  “I want to see your face while I fuck you.”

Sherlock can only moan and whisper a breathy, “Yes, sir,” once more as he moves to comply to John’s order.

As Sherlock flips over, John takes the opportunity to reach out in between the cushions of the couch, arm plunging in deep as he searches for something—the small bottle of lubricant that they had taken to keeping in their sitting room, hidden away, for times like this.  By the time Sherlock is done changing position, John has slicked himself up and tossed the bottle aside, not squeezing any extra lube out to prep Sherlock with, simply wiping the excess off on Sherlock’s hole as John reaches out to pull the taller man to him, nestling himself between Sherlock’s spread thighs.

Once Sherlock is on his back, the floor hard and unyielding beneath him, John wastes no time lining his cock up with the detective’s spit-stretched hole.  Sherlock can feel that John still has his trousers on—he never bothered to take them off—and it is the sexiest thing Sherlock has ever seen: John between his wide spread legs, cock angry looking and red, and so desperate that he won’t even finish undressing.

“Yes,” Sherlock hears himself say as John nudges the head in, and he doesn’t even know what he is saying yes to, but it doesn’t matter.  “Yes.”

John pushes into him in one long thrust, and the two groan together, lost against one another.  The feeling of John in him, long and thick, is enough to drown out all other thoughts in Sherlock’s head and he basks in the quiet, in the feel of this, in the perfection.

And when John begins to thrust and slide the head of his cock over Sherlock’s prostate with every move, the man can’t help the noises that begin to fall out of his mouth.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John pants against him, and it seems as though he no longer has the strength to hold his own head up because it falls to Sherlock’s chest, and his breaths come in great puffs against Sherlock’s nipple.  “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpers again, and he realizes that he has no idea how long he has been mumbling that word.

Against him, John pumps harder, thrusting deep.  Sherlock can feel the tightness in his own body coiling, familiar now, so familiar, thanks to John, always thanks to John.

“Jesus,” he hears John curse again, above him.  “Jesus, fuck.  Come for me, Sherlock,” he pleads, and the sound of him is so beautiful, so wrecked, that it blows Sherlock away entirely.  “Come.  Come, _now_.” 

And Sherlock can’t help it.  The tone, the commands, the orders—he is lost in John’s voice, lost in John’s arms, lost in _John_ and he comes easily, simply, just like that.  His body arches against the stunning devastation of it, the all-consuming pleasure that seems to burn through his veins at the power of it.  His mind boggles, his body is shocked into pliancy, and his thoughts race.

He has never come on command before.  He has never thought that he would ever be able to.  He wonders briefly what John Watson is doing to him, and then he finds that he doesn’t really care.  He loves this and wants more of it.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”  John’s tone is amazed and his voice is breathless.  “I didn’t think you would…”

“I know,” Sherlock gasps, a shivering aftershock shaking him.  “Me, either.”

“That is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life,” John tells him with a salacious grin.

Sherlock chuckles breathlessly against him, his body still feeling like putty.  “What is the other?” he asks, curious.

“That time that you came without meaning to,” John answers on a whisper, kissing him lovingly.  “Your face then was so gorgeous; surprised and sated and slightly embarrassed.  You looked adorable.”

Sherlock scowls at the term and clenches around John’s cock, causing the other man to gasp and lose his train of thought for a moment.

“Maybe you should just continue where you left off, _Captain_ ,” Sherlock says lowly, pulling John back down against him.

“Ah, not really a need anymore, I’m afraid,” John tells him with a blush.

“What?” Sherlock asks, confused.  Has he done something wrong?  Was it not as good for John as it had been for him?  For the first time ever Sherlock begins to feel what all of his past sexual partners have felt with the knowledge that they couldn’t bring him off, and he finds it is not something that he enjoys.  “Why?” he asks quietly, carefully, afraid of the answer.

“It’s just that,” John begins, stopping to clear his throat.  “Well, I kinda finished right after you did, while you were…distracted….”

Sherlock can’t help the relieved chuckle that escapes him as he stares at John, who is blushing down at him profusely.  Sherlock knows that John doesn’t like to be selfish in bed, and the thought that Sherlock might have wanted to continue for a bit longer has the blond man embarrassed by his own greediness. 

But Sherlock only pulls him back down, kissing him greedily and showing John that it is more than okay to get off on getting him off.

It is something that Sherlock has always thought would never happen between them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IV. John is losing Sherlock inside that great big mind of his again, but he is more than willing to give the genius directions on how to find his way back to John once more. Very descriptive directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning on coming back in the very near future, when I have a bit more time, to edit this with some of the wonderful suggestions from the very helpful SomeCoolName. Thank you so much! As of right now, this chapter is beta'd by the awesome That Kid With the Long Coat. All mistakes now and in the future, though, are solely my own!

They’ve been at it for what feels like hours now, and Sherlock’s body is wrung out, overloaded, too stimulated.

John has gone from snogging him to wanking him to blowing him, all in slow, simmering succession, yet nothing has worked.  It’s maddening, frustrating, disappointing.

Sherlock’s skin feels like it’s about to burst apart, come open at the seams.  There is a build-up of pressure that is going nowhere, a dam of arousal that is keeping him from completion and he _cannot fucking release it_!

He twists against the sheets, John’s head between his thighs, arms and hands and feet and legs constantly moving because his body won’t allow him to stay still and John is trying his best to hold on, to not be thrown off, but it is slowly becoming a moot point.  Whether John is sucking his dick or not, the outcome will be the same, Sherlock knows.

“John, I can’t,” he whimpers, head shaking back and forth, and the pressure on his cock suddenly becomes too much, too intense, and he pushes John off of him, away from him with a sigh of relief.  “I—I want to, so badly, but I just _can’t_!” he cries out, hands coming up to his forehead and tangling in his hair, wishing he could make the noise in his head _just stop_ for one bloody second.

But it’s not use.  Not today.

John feels his agony.  Sweet, caring, understanding John.

“Shh, love, it’s okay,” John soothes softly, moving back up the bed to align his body with Sherlock’s, wrapping a comforting arm around him.  He lays with Sherlock like that for a long while, neither man talking, while Sherlock’s breathing returns to normal and the too-sharp ache of disappointment and useless arousal in his chest and his groin lessen.  Sherlock wants to just curl into John, relax into the man’s warmth and security, but he feels disgusted with himself, and so he stays where he is.  He doesn’t deserve John’s comfort right now.  Not when he can’t give John anything in return.

After some time, Sherlock slowly feels normality come back to him and the self-loathing isn’t quite so consuming.  The tension drains away and he is finally able to relax into John’s arms, and the blond man knows that it is now safe to touch him again.  He begins by petting Sherlock’s hair calmingly and places a soft kiss on the crown of the curly head. 

“You’re just in your head too much,” John whispers into his hair, tightening his hold on Sherlock and crushing the man to him.  “I want to help you; let me help you.”

“What—?” Sherlock begins, because he doesn’t see what else John could possibly do to him, what John hasn’t done yet.  John has given him so much already, more than anyone else ever has, and he doesn’t want to keep disappointing the man.

But John simply cuts him off gently.  “Like I said, you’re in your head too much,” he repeats, as if it is so obvious.  “So I’m going to get you out of there and let you in mine.”

Sherlock frowns against John’s neck, even though he knows the man can’t see him.  “I don’t understand.”

John moves to change their positions, lying Sherlock down amongst the pillows carefully and wiggling down on top of him.  “Just listen to me talk, Sherlock,” John says with a smile and a kiss to his lips.  “Concentrate on what I’m saying.  Let me describe what I’m feeling to you, and you can feel what I feel.  See if that helps.”

He is almost afraid to try again.  Too much stimulus with no release usually puts him on edge for hours, and the resulting disappointment and self-loathing is never easy to handle.  It all makes for a rather lousy few days in the confines of 221b, but he wants so badly.  He can feel the strain in his body from the built-up pressure of days without release and he will do anything to feel peaceful again.  “Yes, okay,” he concedes, and hopes that John is able to give him one more marvel.

John begins slowly, all over again, from the beginning, with a determined set to his chin and eyes.  He kisses Sherlock lazily, indulgently, trying to convey the message that there is no rush, no pressure, no right or wrong.  It is just them, together, and it is lovely.

Sherlock sinks into the kiss, opening his mouth to John and letting the man in.  He has always loved the way John tastes, like skin with a hint of tea, and he licks at John’s lips to savor it again.

“I want to make love to you,” John tells him, barely pulling away from his mouth.  “Can I?”

Sherlock nods in response, not trusting his voice.

“I’m going to start by prepping you,” John states, “but I won’t touch your cock; I know it will start to feel like too much.  We’ll just go slowly.  All right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock manages, never taking his eyes off of the other man.

Sherlock watches as John sits back between his spread thighs, legs bent under him, and grabs the tube of lubricant.  He spreads a generous amount on his fingers and positions his hand at Sherlock’s entrance before moving his body back to hover over the brunet man, slick fingers never leaving Sherlock’s hole as John moves into a more comfortable position.

When they are finally settled, John gives him one final kiss and then says, “Okay, I’m going to start now.  Just listen to the sound of my voice, all right?  Don’t think too much.”

Sherlock takes a deep, steadying breath and nods silently, staring into John’s dark blue eyes.

“All right,” John says, and his voice has dropped down to a whisper.  The two men’s faces are so close together that his words are a gentle stream of breath against Sherlock’s mouth as he talks.  “I’m going to start with one,” he warns, and then Sherlock feels it, blunt and strong, slipping into him with ease and he gasps at the sensation.

John continues to talk.

“I love fingering you,” he tells Sherlock, dropping little, light kisses against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.  “I could do it for hours.  I like that first instance of penetration, the sound you make as I slip past your entrance, like you’ve forgotten what it feels like and you’re surprised, every time.  You’re always so soft and slick inside.”  Sherlock can feel his finger moving insistently against his inner walls, and the feeling is strange, intimate.  “Tight, right there at the entrance, but the second muscle lets me through so easily.  Can you feel it?”

Sherlock arches, pushing his body farther down on John’s finger.  “Yes,” he says, voice slightly strangled.  “I can.”

John hums happily.  “Good, that’s good.  I’m going to give you another now,” he informs Sherlock and then he can feel it again, slipping in besides the one John already has inside of him. 

“I love how your body strains when I add that second finger,” John tells him, voice deep and soft and Sherlock whimpers.  “You always bear down, to make it easier on yourself, and I can feel you opening around my fingers, letting me in.  So beautiful, so trusting.”

“John,” Sherlock moans softly.

“Shh, love, I know,” John soothes as he scissors his fingers in Sherlock’s body.  He works him for a long moment and has Sherlock panting beneath him before he continues. 

“It’s harder for your body to take in a third finger,” John says as he slips another finger in next to the first two, “but it tries so hard, I can feel it.”  The stretch is uncomfortable for a moment and Sherlock strains against the slight burn before remembering that it will be better if he bears down against it.  “You try so hard for me, it’s lovely,” John praises him and Sherlock works harder to loosen his muscles.  “You open up so slowly; I always have to be so careful not to hurt you.  But it’s always worth it to see you this way.  And when I find just the right spot,” John curls his fingers a certain way, searching, and he knows when he’s found what he is looking for as Sherlock cries out against the electric sparks of pleasure that shoot through his body and set everything alight, “you make the most perfect sound.  I always want to kiss you right then, so that I can swallow that sound down and keep it in me forever.”

“John,” Sherlock is panting heavily now, straining against his fingers.  “So good.”  He doesn’t even know what he is saying anymore.  His brain has gone quiet and fuzzy in the way that only John can shut it down, and Sherlock loses himself in the blissful feeling, utterly at peace for the first time in what feels like days.

“Yes,” John agrees with a smile.  “It is.  And I can always tell when you’re ready for me; your body goes slack and pliant against mine.  It’s like you’re giving yourself up to me completely.  Just like that,” John says, and Sherlock can feel it, too—the way he relaxes, opens up fully.  Interesting.  He has never paid so much attention to his body before, never really thought to, and it surprises him that John obviously has, that John can read him like a book.

“I get so impatient at this point,” John whispers to him, like he’s telling Sherlock a secret, “wanting to be inside of you so badly, knowing you’re ready for me, knowing you want me so much right now.  But I have to remember to slick myself up, to make sure there’s enough lube still around that perfect little hole, because I don’t ever want to do anything to ruin it, to hurt you.”

He does as he says, pulling out of Sherlock’s body and re-lubing his fingers, coating his erect cock with a slow pull, and then another.  When he releases himself he wipes the excess lube over Sherlock’s hole, dipping the tips of his fingers into the outer rim of Sherlock’s entrance to be sure that all of the lube is in place properly.  And then he moves to align himself with Sherlock’s body.

“This is my favorite part, right here, right now,” John pants, and his voice has gone rough with wanting, Sherlock can hear the gravel in his tone.  “When I’ve lined myself up and I’m right at the edge of you.  I can feel the heat of your body on the head of my cock, and I can feel your thighs shaking where they rest against mine.  And when I push the tip right up to your entrance you always tense up a little, just a little, but it’s delicious.  It always amazes me that your body can take me so well, that tight little hole that always looks like it’s never once been stretched, no matter how long I’ve spent opening it up.”  The tip of John’s cock nudges against Sherlock’s body maddeningly, and Sherlock tries to wriggle down onto it, but the blond man uses a hand to keep him still.

“John, _please_!” Sherlock groans, because he wants to feel it so badly.

“And when I finally push in,” and he does, and they both groan at the sensation, at the feel of each other, “it’s heaven,” John pants.  “It’s the most perfect thing in the world.  I wish I can just stay right here forever, but—”

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock interrupts him and John chuckles.

“—this is when you always get so impatient and I can’t ever deny you anything, so I move,” he does so, “and it gets so much better.  Can you feel it, Sherlock?  How perfect it is?”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffs as John thrusts into him.  “ _Yes_!”

“You’re so tight around my cock, so warm.  And the lube makes everything so slick and the friction is amazing.”  John fucks into him, a steady rhythm that matches the beating of Sherlock’s heart and Sherlock loses himself in the feel of it, of John’s body against his and John’s voice washing over him. 

“I can feel you starting to sweat beneath me, your body working so hard to keep up with me,” John pants, and Sherlock can hear the strain in his voice.  John sounds absolutely wrecked but he continues, because he told Sherlock that he would.  “Your respiration changes, gets deeper, shorter, and you get this blank sort of look on your face—the only time I’ve ever seen you look so calm, so peaceful, and I always think to myself ‘ _If only I can keep him like this, if only I can help him feel this all the time, I would die happy, I would consider my life fulfilled_ ’.”

Sherlock whimpers beneath him, gasping for air in a room that suddenly feels as if it is being taken up completely by John.  John’s touch and John’s words and John’s scent and John’s sweat on his body.  He wants to absolutely drown in the man.  He grasps at John’s arms, a desperate warning because he can feel that now-familiar tightness coiling in his abdomen, that undefinable current of electricity that runs through his body and sets his nerve endings alight.

“John,” he whispers, but the man is talking again and doesn’t pay him any attention.

“And I can always tell when you’re about to come,” John is saying, “because your belly tightens.  I can feel the muscles moving under my hand or against my stomach when I’m pressed up against you like this.  You’re whole body starts to shake and your pupils dilate.  Your mouth goes soft and slack and that’s my favorite time to kiss you, when you’re too far gone to even respond to my lips.”  John bends down low over him now, bringing their mouths together but not kissing, just pressing so that he can still speak to Sherlock, can still talk to him.  “And while I’m kissing you, I can feel you inhale around my mouth, and I know that you’re finally there, finally, and then—”

A sharp gasp and a little sound that John swallows up, and Sherlock’s body is racked by the power of his climax.

“Yes, right there,” John whispers against his lips, and then he goes tense as well, and Sherlock can feel the warmth of his release deep in his body and he sighs in happiness, feeling complete at last.

They lay there for a minute, John’s cock going soft inside of him until it slips out.  It’s a strange sensation, to feel so empty all of a sudden after feeling so perfectly full only a moment before.  Sherlock is aware that he is covered in come—it’s all over his belly and chest and leaking out of his loosened hole and smearing on the insides of his thighs and arse cheeks, dirtying the bedsheets—but he doesn’t rightly care at the moment.  He feels so content, so he just lays there, basking in it.

Beside him he feels John begin to stir, and he knows that the other man will clean him up in a moment.  He is proven right when John gathers up a discarded shirt and wipes him down.  When they are both as clean as they can get without showers, John settles back onto the bed besides him and fidgets a bit uncomfortably.

“So,” he begins, and he sounds endearingly awkward.  “Do you like the submission stuff a lot, then?”

Sherlock is not fazed by this particular line of inquiry—has expected it for some time—and just shrugs nonchalantly.  “I haven’t really thought about it much,” he answers truthfully.

“It’s just that,” John tries, and Sherlock knows that he is struggling to find the right words, “it seems like you’ve been getting off on it more than other times we do stuff.”

“You know I’m not always able to orgasm every time we have sex, John,” Sherlock reminds him, voice a tad too confrontational.  His inability to achieve orgasm every time they are intimate is still a touchy subject for Sherlock, a constant annoyance and worry in the back of the detective’s mind whenever he and John have intercourse.

“Yeah, no, I know,” John is quick to confirm, not wanting to say anything that will make Sherlock uncomfortable.  “It just seems like you’re more apt to finish whenever I dominate you somewhat.”

Sherlock turns over to look at him finally, frowning in confusion.  “I don’t really see how what we did this time can be defined as ‘domination’,” he tells him point-blank.

At this, John takes a long moment to answer, and Sherlock knows that he is trying yet again to find the right words, to explain this properly.  Sherlock waits patiently for his answer, somewhat intrigued in spite of himself.

“It’s not so much me dominating you in an obvious way,” John begins slowly, carefully.  “It’s more that you’re submitting to me somehow, giving yourself over to me each time, letting me steer you in the direction I want you to go.  Even that first night that I made you orgasm—it was me taking control of your body.  And the next time, too.”  John makes a vague gesture with his hand and Sherlock is not sure what the motion is supposed to mean.  “It was me taking care of you, making you feel better.  You submitted to my care, both times.  And then when I pulled rank, it was more obvious.  But even now you let me do what I thought you needed to give you pleasure.”  He pauses for a moment and turns to look Sherlock in the eye, so that there is no hiding from his words or denying the truth of them.  “No matter what you say, it’s a submission thing.”

Interesting.  Sherlock has never thought of it that way, but now that John has brought it up, he can see that it is indeed true. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, in a way,” he concedes.  “Submitting to you and letting you take over when we’re in bed does tend to quiet my brain a bit.  It doesn’t always shut it off completely, but it helps slow it down.”  And now it is his turn to pause, to search for the right words.  He wants to properly explain it to John, to let him know exactly how John helps him.  “When you tell me what to do, when you talk to me, I don’t have to think about it so much.  I can just sort of let it happen.  You ease me into it.  It’s,” he searches for a way to describe it, straining to find the perfect word.  “Wonderful,” he finishes lamely, for lack of a better description.

At this, John smiles at him warmly, bending down to place a soft kiss on the brunet man’s forehead.  “I’m glad I can make you feel good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head, wanting to clarify.  Needing it to be known.

“You don’t just make me feel good, John,” he says truthfully.  “You make me feel _loved_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V. John has never thought that he would see the day that Sherlock Holmes got off on being sexually humiliated, but he is slowly learning that the genius is full of rather interesting surprises lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Spanking, sexual humiliation and facials. If that is not your thing, please feel free to skip this chapter and tune in next week for chapter 6. Although, if it’s something you think you might be interested in giving a try and reading about, I’d say you should totally give this chapter a chance. I tried to keep the essence of the relationship I’ve created for Sherlock and John at the heart of this chapter, so hopefully that caring, loving aspect is still evident, just with a darker edge to it. For those of you who are new to the idea of sexual humiliation, or have never tried it out for yourselves, let me assure you: it is all completely consensual. Huge thanks to SomeCoolName and That Kid With The Long Coat for beta’ing!

John glares at him angrily from across the sitting room, his frown deepening the lines on his face as he stares at Sherlock.

Finally, after minutes of nothing, he breaks the silence.  “You were awful today, Sherlock.  Really horrible,” he says, and his tone is chastising, scolding.  _Perfect_ , Sherlock thinks with a shiver of anticipation.  “What’s gotten into you?  You haven’t acted so rude at a crime scene in a long time.”

Sherlock only shrugs flippantly, resting his violin on his knees as he sits in his chair and plucks gratingly along the strings at random intervals.  “I don’t know what you mean, John.”  He sniffs derisively.

But John is having none of it, not today, and that is just lovely. 

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock,” John says, tone harsh.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.  All of the snide comments and rude remarks.  You were worse than you normally are, noticeably so.  You even made Molly cry when we were at Bart’s earlier.  I haven’t seen you acting like such a callous arsehole in a long time, and I can’t say that I much care for it.”

Sherlock flashes him an annoyingly charming smile, the fake kind that he knows John absolutely loathes.  “You always say that you like everything about me, John,” he argues, and he can see the tension in the doctor’s shoulders grow, tighten.  “That I’m perfect the way I am, that you wouldn’t ever want me to change.”

For a moment John says nothing, and Sherlock thinks that it is because John is trying to get his anger under control.  Finally the doctor responds, a little more calmly than he has been, “Yes, well, a little less rudeness would be nice.”

And there it is.  Sherlock takes his chance.

“Why don’t you teach me a lesson then?” he asks, careful to keep his tone casual and his eyes locked on John to gauge his reaction.

John only frowns at him for a second, confused.  “ ‘Teach you a lesson’?” he repeats, lost.  “I don’t— _oh_.”  And Sherlock can see the moment that it hits him, the exact moment that he understands.

Yes, Sherlock is sure that John can see it now.  See how Sherlock’s body craves it: a harsh word, a heavy touch.  Sherlock is practically begging for it, silently, secretly.  And John will love giving it to him, he knows.

It takes a moment for John to agree.  Sherlock can tell that he is arguing with himself, waging a silent battle with his conscious.  They haven’t ever gone this far, he knows, taken it to this level, but Sherlock has been steering them here for some time, curious.  And John knew that, so this couldn’t really be a total surprise.

And then he sees the moment that John loses the battle with his conscious, the moment that his will bends to his baser instincts and Sherlock’s body.  Because John wants this too, Sherlock knows, although he won’t ever show it like Sherlock will, give in to it like Sherlock is.

John nods his head, once, and his face is set in a stern mask, as though he is mentally psyching himself up for this.  “You’ll get 5, I think,” he tells Sherlock, and the detective shivers in anticipation.  “And after each one, you’ll count them and tell me why you’re getting punished.  Is that understood?”

John doesn’t give him any more explanation than that, because he knows that Sherlock understands what he is talking about; Sherlock is the one who wants this, after all.  John knows that the genius completely comprehends what is about to happen now.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, voice barely more than a whisper.  He doesn’t call John ‘Captain’ or ‘sir’, because that’s not who the doctor is at the moment.  He is just John, simply giving Sherlock something that the brunet man desperately needs.

“Come over here, then, and get into position.”

Sherlock waits until John sits down on the couch, at the edge of the seat, and braces his legs against the floor.  Once John is settled Sherlock stands from his chair, carefully laying the violin down on the cushions, and makes his way cautiously over to John.  When he is standing before the other man he strips without having to be told, and he can tell that John likes that—can see it in the dilation of the man’s pupils, the flush on his skin; can hear it in the hitch of his breath.

“Over my knees,” John whispers, and already his tone is hard and harsh.  The disciplinarian, the commander, putting Sherlock in his place and showing him who is in control.

And Sherlock loves it so much.

He lies awkwardly across John’s lap, hands bracing his upper body against the floor and long legs trailing down the other side.  Their height difference makes the positioning uncomfortable, but Sherlock doesn’t care, that’s not what’s important right now.

“Tell me why, and count,” John reminds him, bringing a warm hand to rest on Sherlock’s bare arse cheek for a second, cupping his hand around the soft flesh to follow the shape of it—wanting to maximize the impact, Sherlock realizes—before he lifts it up and brings it back down quickly, with no warning.

Sherlock jumps in surprise—the stinging slap hurts more than he had initially thought it would.  It seems that John is not holding back like Sherlock assumed he would.  It is delicious and he wants more.

“One,” he says, and his voice is, surprisingly, slightly shaky.  “My attitude at the crime scene today was atrocious.”

John hums in agreement and rubs his hand in a slow circle over the pinkening flesh of Sherlock’s cheek.  “Good boy,” he says warmly, and Sherlock squirms in his lap.

The next hit is as unexpected as the first.  John brings his hand down so quickly after lifting it away from Sherlock’s skin that the brunet barely has time to steel himself against the blow.  John hits him in the exact same spot, harder than the first time, and the sting of it is incredible, a slow-fire burn that tingles painfully and spreads an uncomfortable warmth to the surrounding skin.

“Two,” Sherlock chokes out on a strangled gasp.  “I insulted Lestrade in front of his team.”

“Yes,” John agrees, and there is no break between the second and third spanks the way there was with the first two.  John brings his hand back down across Sherlock’s soft skin, in a different spot, but no less powerful than the second swat.  Sherlock can’t tell if it hurts more or less than being hit in the same place twice.

“Three,” he manages between gritted teeth.  “I ridiculed you and embarrassed you in front of everyone.”

“Very good, I’m glad you noticed,” John praises him and rewards him by gently stroking over his red arse softly, petting the stinging skin and dipping into the crack between his cheeks to stroke over his hole quickly.

Bent over him, Sherlock squirms and rubs himself against John’s lap, moaning wantonly.

John spanks him again, and this time the blow falls on the tops of his thighs, where the sting feels more substantial.  It’s interesting; Sherlock didn’t expect similar areas of his body to react so differently to the same stimuli.  He makes a mental note of it for later, but doesn’t want to become distracted right now.  Not with the way his cock is bobbing and thickening with each smack of John’s hand.

“Four,” he gasps out, and he finds it hard to breathe through the stinging pain for a moment.  “I made Molly cry.”

“Last one,” John promises, and his voice is soothing and calm, like a lullaby.

The hit, when it comes, is the exact opposite.  John, apparently, has indeed been holding back as he’s smacked Sherlock’s naked arse, and has been saving the harshest swat for last.  A sob is torn from Sherlock’s throat before he can stop the noise from escaping and he strains in John’s lap, but the doctor holds him down easily.  “Count it, or we start all over,” John whispers to him sweetly, and _oh_ how Sherlock aches at the sound of that voice.

“Five!” he cries out.  “I lied to you when we got home and said that I didn’t know what you were talking about when you brought up my behavior today.”

“Good boy,” John croons at him, and Sherlock can’t help but shiver with arousal at the demeaning endearment, his cock engorging that last little bit to full hardness from John’s words alone.

And since he is naked, in John’s lap, pressed so close against him, of course John notices.

“Is this how you want to come today?” he asks Sherlock, and the brunet man continues his squirming against the warmth of John’s legs, whimpering and nodding his head shamelessly.

“Yes,” he whispers.  And then, “Please.”

“Yes, all right,” John agrees, petting Sherlock’s bare arse.  The detective goes limp across his lap in relief.

John stands suddenly, without so much as a warning, and Sherlock nearly falls out of his lap and onto the floor.  He manages to catch himself at the last minute, settling down on the floor and kneeling in front of the other man, who is undoing the flies on his jeans and pulling down his trousers, taking his pants along with them.  He spends another few seconds getting completely undressed, and Sherlock simply kneels there next to him, staring and waiting.  When John tosses his clothes aside and straightens, Sherlock can see that he has the beginnings of an erection, and the semi-engorged flesh looks positively appetizing right at Sherlock’s eye level.

But he doesn’t touch, because John hasn’t told him to.

Soon enough, though, John takes himself in one hand, using the other to twist his fingers into Sherlock’s hair at the top of his head and pull none too gently, causing the detective to stretch his neck and look up at John, looming above him.  When he’s certain he has Sherlock’s attention, John takes his cock and pushes the head of it against Sherlock’s closed mouth, prying it open and slipping inside.

“I want you to suck me,” John says, and his tone is as dark as the color of his eyes.  “We’ll see if we can teach that pretty little mouth how to do something nice for a change.”

Sherlock’s stomach tightens suddenly in arousal and he has to close his eyes because it’s too much, it’s perfect, it’s everything that he needs and he is afraid that it’s just a dream.

But John’s prick feels very real in his mouth, hardening more as Sherlock begins to work his tongue over it, under it, against it.  He slips his tongue underneath the foreskin while he still has the chance, before it retracts once John reaches full hardness, and he hears the other man groan above him.

“Oh, God, that’s perfect,” John says, and his hand tightens harshly in the thick curls as Sherlock swallows more of him.  “I’m going to make a mess of you, and you’ll love it, won’t you?  You want me to come all over you, don’t you?” John asks, and Sherlock knows that he doesn’t really want an answer because he is shoving the brunet’s mouth farther onto his prick and thrusting his hips harder against Sherlock’s face, effectively rendering Sherlock speechless for the moment.  “I’m going to use you all up, and then toss you aside, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

_Yes_ , that’s what Sherlock wants.  He wants all of that, and more still.  He wants to be debased, degraded.  He aches for it.  But since he can’t tell John this, he tries to voice his pleasure in a deep moan as he sucks John all the way to the back of his throat.

He will never know how John does it; how John knows exactly, just _exactly_ , what to say to him, what to do with him.  But John does.  Every single time.

Sherlock is so hard now that he is aching and he hasn’t once touched his cock.  It juts out from his body, swaying heavily as Sherlock throws himself voraciously into the blow job, heedless of his own pleasure for now.  He knows John will take care of him later.  John always takes such good care of him.

The blond man is leaking a steady amount of precome into his mouth, and Sherlock finds the taste bitter and strange.  He has never fellated John for this long before—they usually move on to other things by this point—and he finds that his jaw is beginning to hurt from being pried open for such a length of time but he ignores it, tries to open wider for John, to take even more of him in.  He can feel spit slipping out past the corners of his mouth as John thrusts in and out.  It slides down his chin and dribbles to the floor and he feels slightly disgusting, wants to reach a hand up to wipe it away but he doesn’t.

“God, look at how filthy you are,” John says suddenly from above him, and he does what Sherlock didn’t; he brings a finger down to run across one side of Sherlock’s mouth, catching a string of spittle that has escaped.  “Such a slut.”  And it sounds like a compliment.  “You’ll give it away to anyone, won’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t know if this is supposed to be true or not in this game that they’re playing, but he finds that it doesn’t matter.  John isn’t expecting an answer from him, so he simply groans as he sucks along John’s shaft, pulling up to the head and lavishing attention on it for a long moment, playing with the foreskin that has retracted to sit past the crown.

Above him, John continues to speak, and even though his voice has gone breathless there is still that hard edge to it, that velvet darkness.

“Maybe I won’t even let you come,” John tells him, and Sherlock whines around his cock helplessly.  “Only good whores get to come.  And you’ve been so very, very naughty, haven’t you?” 

This time John pulls him off of his dick by his hair painfully and waits for an answer.  Sherlock takes the opportunity to catch his breath, but he knows John expects a reply quickly, so he pauses for only a moment before he moans out a strangled, “Yes.”

“I’m glad you’re finally seeing things my way,” John tells him as he pushes Sherlock’s face back down onto his crotch.  Sherlock braces himself for the onslaught once again, knowing that John will be just as forceful as he has been.  Because Sherlock wants this, after all.

Yes, he wants it.  It is just what he needs, what he has been craving for days.  It is perfect.

And suddenly, without even realizing it, Sherlock is almost there, almost at the edge, and he feels his orgasm coming up on him, sneaking over him.  He is surprised, and so very very grateful.

He pulls away from John’s cock forcefully, breaks the man’s hold on his head.  “John,” he says breathlessly, “I’m going to—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” John says harshly, and he bends almost double, reaching down suddenly to clamp down on the base of Sherlock’s cock beneath the balls, cutting off the brunet’s impending orgasm and sending a slight twinge of pain into Sherlock’s body to take the edge off of his arousal.  “Not until I say you can.  You’ll only come when I give you permission; when I think you’ve earned it.”

Sherlock whines and cringes at the harsh grip John has around his dick, trying to buck up into the grasp nonetheless.

He was so close, so close.  It had felt so good, amazing, he doesn’t understand why John is doing this.

“Please, John, please,” he begs, the words spilling out of his mouth of their own accord on tiny little helpless sobs.

John lets go of him finally and stands back up, staring down at Sherlock from above with a stern look.  “I see you’ve learned how to beg like a good slut,” he says.  “What else can you do, hmm?  Go ahead.  Show me.”

And finally, _finally_ , Sherlock reaches down to take hold of his own cock, smearing the precome that has leaked from the tip all around the head with the flat of his palm, moaning desperately at the feel of the friction against the heated flesh.

“Oh, God, you’re so filthy,” John tells him as he watches Sherlock wank himself.  “But you like being that way, don’t you?”

He doesn’t give Sherlock the opportunity to answer, though.  He pulls Sherlock’s mouth back down onto his cock and resumes fucking his face, and Sherlock whimpers at the merciless thrusts.

“I’m going to keep fucking your mouth,” John informs him as he stays true to his word.  “And then, when I’m ready, I’m going to pull out and come all over that pretty face of yours, all over those sinful lips.  I’m going to make a complete mess of you.”

_‘Yes’_ , Sherlock wants to say, ‘ _please, yes_ ,’ but John begins a pounding rhythm into his mouth, relentless, and suddenly it takes all of Sherlock’s concentration and willpower to not gag, to not cough and splutter on the length of John’s prick.  He knows John isn’t going to last much longer, he can feel it in the tightly coiled muscles of the man’s thighs, where Sherlock has put his hands to brace himself against John’s onslaught, so he tries to hold on for a little longer, just a little longer…

John pulls out so suddenly that Sherlock is surprised that he can breathe normally once again, but the opportunity doesn’t last for long.  The next thing he knows, John is yanking his head back forcefully by his hair, tilting his face up as far as it will go and Sherlock closes his eyes against the pain of it.

And suddenly there is the wet, warm splash of something hitting the skin of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the closed cavern of his mouth.  He feels drops of it fall on his forehead and some dribbles down the side of his face, turned upward as it is, to catch in the creases of his ear.

He has never had someone come on his face before.  It is strange, degrading, hot as hell, everything he needed, absolutely perfect.  He can feel the warmth of it all over his face, smell the deep musk of it so close to his nose, taste the bitterness of it as it seeps past his closed lips, slipping into the seam.

“Open your mouth and lick it up, like the good little whore that you are.”

Sherlock does.

John rubs the head of his softening cock along Sherlock’s cheeks, over his closed eye.  He drags it down to Sherlock’s mouth and just slides it over the plump flesh of his bottom lip a few times, back and forth, before dipping it into the brunet’s mouth, squeezing the last drops of come out onto Sherlock’s tongue.

“That’s right, take every bit of it,” he praises in a whisper.  “Good boy.”

Sherlock tries to wait a little longer, to bask in the serenity of this moment that John has given him, but his aching, straining cock will not be ignored a minute longer. 

“Please, John, please, can I?” he asks, _begs_ , because he is shameless now, is beyond caring.  “I was good, wasn’t I?  You said I was good.”

John smiles beatifically down at him, running his fingers through the come on Sherlock’s cheek, sliding them over to his lips and Sherlock opens his mouth willingly, taking it all in.  “Perfect, darling,” John tells him softly.  “You were perfect.  Yes, you can come.  But I’m not going to touch you.  I want you to toss yourself off while I watch.”

Sherlock whines, low in his throat.

“Now, now, don’t complain,” John reproaches him patiently.  “Just be glad I’m letting you come at all, because I know how badly you need it.”  The fingers that are in his mouth suddenly pull out and run through his hair, coating the strands in spit and semen.  “Poor kitten,” he says to Sherlock soothingly.  “You went so long without it before me that you need it all the time now, don’t you?  You just can’t get enough.  But you were so naughty today that you’ll take what I give you, and you’ll like it.  So go on, then.  I’m waiting.”

Sherlock lets out a groan of frustration and slumps against John’s leg, hiding his face and breathing heavily.  He works his hand along the length of his cock, imagining that it is John’s fingers, wanting to be good for John and do as the other man tells him.

He finds that it is not as difficult as he feared it would be.  He has been so hard for so long that his body instantly responds to his own touch, and he feels that familiar tightness in his groin, the crescendo of arousal that shoots throughout his entire body.  John can feel it, too, in the way that Sherlock goes taut against him, in the way Sherlock’s heavy pants turn into short gasps of air.  He brings a hand down to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, petting him, and coos a soft, “Such a good boy,” and that’s it, that’s that last piece of the puzzle, and Sherlock is lost.

He comes over his hand, feeling it dribble warmly down his fist, squeezing tightly on the shaft and not moving for fear of over-stimulating himself.  With his eyes closed he can’t see John, but he can feel the man pulling away from him, kneeling down on the floor in front of him and bending over, taking the swollen, come covered head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth gently.

Sherlock hisses in surprise but doesn’t pull away.  Without John moving, it isn’t painful or unbearable.   It is warm and wet, and just on the right side of overwhelming.  Sherlock relaxes into the sensation, and he sighs softly in contentment.  After a few moments, when John is sure Sherlock’s body can stand it, he begins to gently lick him clean, and the brunet practically melts into a puddle on the floor.

When he is done, John sits up, level with Sherlock as both men kneel on the floor next to each other.  “You are certainly a mystery, Sherlock Holmes,” he tells the other man, giggling slightly.  “I don’t understand how your mind works.  A few weeks ago you told me that it was almost impossible for you to achieve an orgasm and now look at you.  You’ve come without meaning to, you’ve come on command, you’ve come from just me talking to you, you’ve brought yourself off…”

Sherlock finally pries his eyes open, and smiles, feeling the crust of John’s dried semen on his face stretching as his skin moves.  There are still bits of it clumping the lashes of one eye together, but he ignores it and simply shakes his head at his lover’s comment.

“No, John,” he disagrees.  “It’s not been me doing it.  It’s you.  _You’ve_ brought me off, every single time.  Even now.  It’s only ever been you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VI. The sound of love in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! I know it's short, but hopefully it's good. I'd like to thank everyone who commented, left kudos, bookmarked and read this fic. And also, a huge thanks to That Kid With the Long Coat and SomeCoolName for beta'ing. You guys are great!

They slide together slowly, slickly, easily.  The room is dark now, the sun having set long ago, but neither minds enough to stop and turn on a light.  It doesn’t matter; they don’t need to see one another to know where to touch, where to kiss.

Everything is quiet, the air around them still and silent, broken only by stifled moans and soft sighs and the rustle of sheets as they move against one another, with each other.

There is the sound of mouths sucking hardened flesh, the sharp _snick_ of a bottle of lube being opened, the loud gasp as a body is finally penetrated by sure and steady fingers.  A sharp moan and an inhalation of breath split the heavy silence. 

Then there is the strange, undefinable noise of more fingers being added; of slow, careful stretching.  Panting breaths and rustling sheets as knees are spread wider, an unspoken plea for more. 

A groan of disappointment shatters the gentle susurrus that has been steadily filling the bedroom as fingers are removed, as a body is left empty.  The loving rumble of a soft chuckle is accompanied by the gurgle of more lube being squeezed from the bottle.  The sound of the slick slide of a hand coating a cock, shaking slightly with anticipation, is quiet yet unmistakable and does not go unnoticed in the obscurity of the room. 

And suddenly there are the combined moans of two bodies becoming one in the darkness.  The wet sounds of deep, open mouth kisses and finally the sharp slap of flesh on flesh, growing louder as the urgency of thrusts increase.  Cries and whimpers of desperation, pleasure, love.  The groaning creak of the old bed beneath them protesting against their insistent movements grows alarmingly louder as they continue, but neither notices enough to stop.

The pitch of their voices and the sound of their trembling breaths increases in increments, turning sharp and high and quick until suddenly neither can last any longer.  Then, finally, the sweet sound of the two climaxing together, against one another, mingles between them as they touch and kiss and take in all of each other.  After that the only thing that breaks the silence of the room is their combined gasps and heavy breaths.

There are no words.  There doesn’t need to be. 

Not this time.


End file.
